Posts
Now you gotta remember, these are basically feral creatures. Yes, I know about the reverent types. I know about Tomas and the Philadelphia crew. And they're not the only ones like that. Still, losing one's religion is quite common among night-folk. It could happen to anyone. And Tomas never expected to see Sir Richard. He despised that slimy bastard. Didn't want to get old. Couldn't bear to change. So vain. So studied. So hateful.
You know, a lot of people bought titles in the late sixteen hundreds. Parliament created one especially for that purpose. A baronetcy it was called. The holder was styled 'baronet.' They called him 'Sir.' But unlike a simple knighthood, this thing could be passed on, assuring his descendants at least a toe hold among the nobility. They got a manor, an entree, and probably a monogrammed snuff box. I don't know. Many were former alderman, or county sheriffs, or some such thing like that. And oh, how they reveled in it. Petty, little 'merry monarchs,' that's what they were. Wore the same wigs, the same clothes, the same mustache, the same everything, as Charles II, their perceived benefactor. Some paid over ten thousand pounds for the much coveted social elevation. And it is ironic, that Tomas left London for safe harbor in a nascent Philadelphia, itself a fiefdom of one such fellow. Though being a Quaker, Penn never styled himself a baronet. He was Lord Protector of Pennsylvania, a realm more grand than many a principality on the continent.
But Tomas had no gripe with him. His nemesis was Sir Richard. They say he owned a coffee house, perhaps two. Gentleman of quality frequented these establishments, for the rich, aromatic brew newly brought to The City from Hapsburg realms, by way of Paris. Sometimes they had dinner too, simple things like sausages and cabbage, or perhaps a willing wench.
Richard's place had false walls meant for spies, narrow hidey-holes just right for blackmailers, honor-thieves and robbers. They'd listen as merchants, parliamentarians and slavers, mapped their lives, remembering certain potentially embarrassing tidbits for later. Men say things when wigs are off. Everyone knows that.
Guineas and ducats by the score danced into Richard's pockets via straw men who made their threats on his behalf. Unpaid taxes? Dangerous liaisons? Plots against an already unsettled church? Such whispers dusted every crevice of those old, paneled walls. High backed booths, meant to grant privacy hid traitors.... and sometimes vampires.
Tomas de Macabea liked London, in many ways one of the most 'modern' and inclusive polities in the Christian world. He appreciated the expansive park-like estates to the west and the grand palaces, such as Saint James. Opulent pleasure barges ferried monied gentlefolk to suburban entertainments in such newly established amusement centers as Vaux Hall and Chelsea. They strolled manicured grounds, rode festooned round-abouts and sipped fine, chilled, sweetened wines. Chamber ensembles provided discreet accompaniment to quick, chaste kisses and some not so chaste. Many a bastard began in the bushes of Vaux Hall. And many a duel began there too.
Her name was Sylvia, the same as Tomas' more recent mole-folk sex-friend. And he loved her. True, marriage was out of the question. He adopted the raiment of a not so proper Andalusian emigre. The second son of an old Seville family, of late at odds with The Inquisition. London appreciated people like that, but they did not mate with them.
Sylvia's father was a gentleman, not a noble, but in every other way indistinguishable from the breed. He had the 'house' in Sussex and the requisite stables too. She came out at court and danced at all the finest assemblies and cotillions.... her gowns made by skilled Huguenots come for the freedom and financial opportunities of The City. And her jewels were fashioned by Tuscan craftsmen, some of whom were discretely Hebrew, as was Tomas.
He doted on his sweetheart, never her acknowledged swain, but always there, in the shadows, with a bauble, or a bon-bon, or a kiss. Indeed, his blood brought her through the plague, although she didn't know it. And when Richard's greasy machinations brought her father low, she suffered greatly. A girl from a titled family may of least have had that. But she did not. How sad that money, or the lack of it, changes everything.
I am not able to tell you more tonight. Dawn comes. Some spirits dance through sunbeams, but I cannot. The frothy energy diffuses the nebulous particles of my being. And so I hide in darkness, sleeping with the vampires.
I go now to my rest. Molest me not til moonbeams shine again....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
please nominate me for a SHORTY AWARD. Tweet this ~~> I nominate @wilkravitz for a SHORTY AWARD in #BLOGGER based on his stories and narratives... THANK YOU. your COMMENTS are always very welcome.
You know, a lot of people bought titles in the late sixteen hundreds. Parliament created one especially for that purpose. A baronetcy it was called. The holder was styled 'baronet.' They called him 'Sir.' But unlike a simple knighthood, this thing could be passed on, assuring his descendants at least a toe hold among the nobility. They got a manor, an entree, and probably a monogrammed snuff box. I don't know. Many were former alderman, or county sheriffs, or some such thing like that. And oh, how they reveled in it. Petty, little 'merry monarchs,' that's what they were. Wore the same wigs, the same clothes, the same mustache, the same everything, as Charles II, their perceived benefactor. Some paid over ten thousand pounds for the much coveted social elevation. And it is ironic, that Tomas left London for safe harbor in a nascent Philadelphia, itself a fiefdom of one such fellow. Though being a Quaker, Penn never styled himself a baronet. He was Lord Protector of Pennsylvania, a realm more grand than many a principality on the continent.
But Tomas had no gripe with him. His nemesis was Sir Richard. They say he owned a coffee house, perhaps two. Gentleman of quality frequented these establishments, for the rich, aromatic brew newly brought to The City from Hapsburg realms, by way of Paris. Sometimes they had dinner too, simple things like sausages and cabbage, or perhaps a willing wench.
Richard's place had false walls meant for spies, narrow hidey-holes just right for blackmailers, honor-thieves and robbers. They'd listen as merchants, parliamentarians and slavers, mapped their lives, remembering certain potentially embarrassing tidbits for later. Men say things when wigs are off. Everyone knows that.
Guineas and ducats by the score danced into Richard's pockets via straw men who made their threats on his behalf. Unpaid taxes? Dangerous liaisons? Plots against an already unsettled church? Such whispers dusted every crevice of those old, paneled walls. High backed booths, meant to grant privacy hid traitors.... and sometimes vampires.
Tomas de Macabea liked London, in many ways one of the most 'modern' and inclusive polities in the Christian world. He appreciated the expansive park-like estates to the west and the grand palaces, such as Saint James. Opulent pleasure barges ferried monied gentlefolk to suburban entertainments in such newly established amusement centers as Vaux Hall and Chelsea. They strolled manicured grounds, rode festooned round-abouts and sipped fine, chilled, sweetened wines. Chamber ensembles provided discreet accompaniment to quick, chaste kisses and some not so chaste. Many a bastard began in the bushes of Vaux Hall. And many a duel began there too.
Her name was Sylvia, the same as Tomas' more recent mole-folk sex-friend. And he loved her. True, marriage was out of the question. He adopted the raiment of a not so proper Andalusian emigre. The second son of an old Seville family, of late at odds with The Inquisition. London appreciated people like that, but they did not mate with them.
Sylvia's father was a gentleman, not a noble, but in every other way indistinguishable from the breed. He had the 'house' in Sussex and the requisite stables too. She came out at court and danced at all the finest assemblies and cotillions.... her gowns made by skilled Huguenots come for the freedom and financial opportunities of The City. And her jewels were fashioned by Tuscan craftsmen, some of whom were discretely Hebrew, as was Tomas.
He doted on his sweetheart, never her acknowledged swain, but always there, in the shadows, with a bauble, or a bon-bon, or a kiss. Indeed, his blood brought her through the plague, although she didn't know it. And when Richard's greasy machinations brought her father low, she suffered greatly. A girl from a titled family may of least have had that. But she did not. How sad that money, or the lack of it, changes everything.
I am not able to tell you more tonight. Dawn comes. Some spirits dance through sunbeams, but I cannot. The frothy energy diffuses the nebulous particles of my being. And so I hide in darkness, sleeping with the vampires.
I go now to my rest. Molest me not til moonbeams shine again....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
please nominate me for a SHORTY AWARD. Tweet this ~~> I nominate @wilkravitz for a SHORTY AWARD in #BLOGGER based on his stories and narratives... THANK YOU. your COMMENTS are always very welcome.
